Predators

So, dear reader, here are all the chapters in the Predator series, as well as Beyond a Reasonable Doubt, all wrapped up in one giant burrito. I've made a few changes and additions along the way, mainly to smooth transitions and to better integrate Beyond a Reasonable Doubt into the main story arc. This was never the original intent, however, so the two stories will, I think, reside side by side rather uneasily. When you drop in on Woodward in 'Beyond,' the narrative reverts to 'first person' -- so let that be a guide, not an impediment. As she stands, about 240 pages, single spaced, and I've divided the tale into Parts and Chapters. If you've just finished reading the original (parts of the) story, I'm not sure you'll find enough new material to justify the time, but who knows?

Predators

Part I -- Shadows Beyond the Reef

Chapter 1

Dallas

June

He was about forty, forty five years old, very tall, almost gaunt, and not very well groomed. The man was, in every way imaginable, a slothful looking creature, yet in a soiled, potbellied way, and he was wearing greasily tattered green chinos and an old, plaid short-sleeved shirt -- not quite tucked-in all the way. His sneakers were foul looking and, to anyone unlucky enough to get close enough, truly foul smelling. Officer Amy Breedlove watched the suspect through binoculars from an unmarked patrol car, a battered, twenty-six year old Pontiac Grand Am coupe that had, once upon a time, been painted a nice, bright silver. She was parked beside a fragrant trash dumpster off Harry Hines Boulevard, deep inside the industrial wastelands of central Dallas, Texas, in an almost war-torn district full of taquerias, strip joints, peep shows and barren industrial warehouses. She had been following this 'perp', a 45 year old habitual offender named Bruce Walker, for three days -- ever since CID had received an anonymous tip that Walker was downloading kiddy porn from the so-called 'dark web' -- and that he had been roaming around schools and playgrounds. Walker had been released from from federal prison a month ago, and as a registered pedophile-rapist, local law enforcement had been tasked with keeping an eye on him.

Yet here he was in an area full of homeless addicts, scabby-legged hookers and tired old gays cruising glory holes for their next load -- and not working the parks and playgrounds the detectives in CID were hoping for. Still, Breedlove had her orders -- document all his activities -- so she pulled a battered old Canon 1Ds from the seat beside her and slapped a 400/5.6 on it, then swung it to her face. She lightly depressed the shutter and centered his face in the viewfinder, then fired off a five frame burst when his face was clearly visible, then she snapped a few of the adult bookstore he was coming out of.

It was around two in the afternoon, two hours to shift change, and it was hotter than hell outside -- maybe '110 in the shade' hot, and of course the air conditioner in this stinking, fucked-up old car had seen better days -- 'like maybe ten years ago,' she thought. Breedlove was baking in the afternoon heat, and with summer thunderstorms brewing sweat had been pouring down her neck for hours; now it was running down her back, and she wanted an ice cold Coke in the worst sort of way. She leaned forward and tried to pull her water-logged bullet-proof vest away from her skin, sure the goddamn thing was adding about ten extra degrees to her internal temperature, when she caught sight of really odd looking person following the suspect.

"What the fuck! Is that -- a woman?"

The woman was short, dressed in black fatigues -- including a black hood covering her head -- and every instinct Breedlove had screamed "wrong!" -- that this woman was not simply following the suspect, she was stalking him -- like a predator. Breedlove raised the camera to her face, fired off a long burst of the woman, but just then the woman stopped, turned and looked directly at her unmarked car. Breedlove instinctively fired off a burst with the Canon -- and perhaps sensing this, the woman turned and disappeared in the shadows between two warehouses. Breedlove noted the time and location on her notepad, started the engine and slowly made her way over to the area where she had seen both the suspect and the woman, and when she came up empty she started to drive around the area, looking for any trace of either.

"I don't fucking like this," Breedlove said to the hot air in the car, so she picked up the mic dangling from the radio and pushed the transmit button:

"317 to 310 on two," she said, calling the district patrol sergeant on the tactical frequency.

"310, go head."

"Uh, 310, I've got a female over here in what looks like black fatigues, including a hood, following a signal 7 suspect."

"317, what's your 20?"

"Harry Hines at Freewood."

"10/4. 247, are you clear yet?" the sergeant said on the primary frequency.

"247 to 310, 10/4, clearing now."

"247, back up 317, Harry Hines at Freewood on a signal 13. Contact 317 on Tac2 for more information."

"247, code 5."

"Central received, 247 en route at 1420 hours."

Breedlove circled the area, was driving north on Harry Hines when she saw someone running west from a Church's Chicken a block ahead, so she jumped on the accelerator.

"317 to 247, got the suspect running west on Mrytle Springs, away from the chicken place, black fatigues, black hood, looks like a large knife or machete in hand."

"10/4, almost code 6."

"310 to Central, get me some units heading to 317s location, and notify CID."

"Central received at 1422 hours."

"317, suspect running south on Maybank, through the trees!"

"247, code 6 in the area."

"247 at 1426 hours."

"247, this is 310 and I'm about a minute out."

"Received, uh, 247, Signal 33, officer down, repeat, 33, officer down on, on Maybank, just south of Myrtle Springs..."

"310, get air support headed this way, and all responding units go Code 3, now!"

"1426 hours."

"310, code 6, oh, crap! 310, two officers down, repeat two down! I want a full tactical callout, now! Advise Watch Commander...oh, shi..."

"310, received at 1427 hours."

"141, Code 6 in the area." '141' was Ben Acheson, a traffic officer a motorcycle cop, assigned to the northwest district that day, and as he was close when the call came out, he headed to the area to provide extra back-up. He was the next unit to roll up on the scene, and he nearly lost it when he saw the carnage in the street.

He jumped off his BMW R-1200-RT-P motorcycle and let it fall to the ground while he drew his Sig-Sauer P-226 from his holster and covered the scene.

"141, I've got three officers down, decapitated, no suspect in sight."

"141 at 1429 hours."

Acheson kept his 9mm moving, his senses acutely tuned to pick up the slightest sight or sound, but all he heard now was a rolling avalanche of sirens, then a helicopter overhead. Within a minute he was relieved to hear a herd of patrol cars approaching, and he knew a mobile Command and Control Unit would be on the scene soon. He holstered his weapon and walked over to the three slain officers; their bodies were artificially positioned, leaning against one another, the heads placed neatly in their laps, and he fell to his knees and vomited, just as the first back-up units screeched to stop behind him.

Chapter 2

Acheson could hear several helicopters over the crime scene now, and he knew the entire area was being cordoned off as detectives and Crime Scene Units from the department arrived. He saw techs from the Medical Examiner's office looking over the bodies and his stomach lurched again. Looking around, Acheson guessed there were more than fifty patrol cars searching the area now, and news helicopters were circling overhead too. He poked his head in Breedlove's unmarked car, looked it over, read her notes, and walked back to his BMW. Now he was trying to re-trace Breedlove's route from where, he'd read on her notepad, she'd first sighted the female suspect.

He circled around a particularly seedy area on Harry Hines, a bunch of bunch of small businesses just south of Lombardy Lane, looking at a cluster of adult bookstore/video arcades that were usually full of gays, and worn-out hookers, worshipping cock on their knees, when he thought he saw something odd behind a tire store on the corner. He motored over and saw a leg sticking out from behind a pile of old, discarded truck tires, and got on the radio.

"141, out on a possible Signal 1 at 10499 Harry Hines, believe this is related to 317s case."

"141 at 1455 hours."

"105, get some backup and CID over there, Code 3!"

"1455 hours, 309, 315, respond Code 3 to 10499 Harry Hines, at Lombardy, back up 141 on a possible Signal 1."

Acheson got off his bike and walked over to the tires, looked down and suddenly felt like vomiting again. There on the ground lay what was left of an old man, his head severed and his green pants pulled down past his knees. The man's penis had been cut off, his abdomen cut open from the sternum to the pubic area, and his intestines were spread out randomly on the dirty concrete. He walked around the tires, heard sirens closing in on his position when he found the man's head.

Acheson fell to his knees again and vomited uncontrollably when he saw what he assumed was the man's severed penis lodged in a hideously contorted mouth.

Chapter 3

Captain John Wayne Dickinson, usually called "The Duke" by his team in CID, or the Criminal Investigations Division, was in charge of the Breedlove investigation, and he was tired, dog-tired, having been at the scene on Maybank since late afternoon -- the day before. He picked up another glazed donut and took it down in one bite, then downed a pint of ice cold milk in one long pull.

"Look, I want to get some sleep sometime this month," he said as he looked over the crime scene photographs one more time, "so let's summarize what we know so far.

"First, Breedlove was assigned to tail this perp, Walker, and had been for three days;

"Second, she had him near the cum-palaces on Harry Hines, south of Lombardy;

"We also know she was detailed to photograph the perp, so she had one of the department's Canons with her, a 1Ds with a 200 macro and a 400, and those are both missing;

"Third, she calls-in and advises she has a suspicious person, dressed in some sort of black, maybe a ninja-style get-up, stalking the perp, this Walker guy...

"So, do we assume she got some images of this suspect?"

The Duke looked around his briefing room.

"Sounds reasonable to me," Ben Acheson said.

"Remind me, Officer Vomit, just why you're here?"

"Watch Commander assigned me, sir, in case I can fill in any gaps."

The Duke sneered derisively. "Fine, but if you barf on my floor, you'll be working Animal Control for the next five years. Got it, Meathead?"

"Yessir."

"Well, again, assume she got some images of the suspect, as well as the perp she was tailing. So, where does that leave us?"

The Duke looked around the room. "Anyone have any ideas?"

"I do," Acheson said.

"I don't give a fuck if you do or don't, Meathead. Anyone else?"

The room was silent.

The Duke fumed.

"Okay, Meathead, let's hear it."

"Well, okay, assume she shoots them both, but the suspect sees her with the camera. Taking her photograph, that is. If that's the case, it seems to me the suspects first priority would be to recover the camera, get the memory cards. So she disappeared, briefly, then lured Breedlove into a kill zone, took her out but then had to deal with two other officers who got on the scene quicker than anticipated. So, she took 'em out too."

The Duke nodded, grunted his approval. "Then what?"

"She circles back to her original target, Walker, and takes him out, then gets the fuck out of Dodge."

"Okay, I like it, makes sense. What about the crime scene? What does that tell us, Meathead?"

"First, she treated the officers' bodies with respect. She placed the heads neatly on their laps, so my guess is she killed them reluctantly, out of perceived necessity. I guess we can assume the suspect was pretty pissed off when she did Walker, sir."

"Okay, the rest of you take off, get some sleep. I want to talk to Acheson for a minute before I go home."

The room cleared, leaving The Duke and Acheson alone.

"That's pretty much what I took from things, kid. Good work."

"Thank you, sir."

"No sirs when we're in here chewing the fat, kid. So, why are you on motors?"

"Calculus, I guess, sir."

"Calculus?"

"I have an engineering background, BS in Mechanical, UT Austin. When I finished my probation they moved me to Traffic, sent me to reconstruction school..."

"Oh? Where?"

"Northwestern, sir."

"No shit. So, you're one of those hotshots, eh? You're not exactly young. What did you do before?"

"Air Force, sir. C-17s."

"Really? Why aren't you flying for American or Delta, or some such shit?"

"I did. For a couple of years. Layoffs got me, in 2008."

"Oh, yeah. Shitty times all over."

"Yessir."

"Duke. Call me Duke."

"Sorry sir, ain't in my DNA."

"Alright. So. Did you know her?"

"Sir?"

"Breedlove. Did you know her."

"Yessir. Academy."

Ouch, Dickinson said to himself. Academy classmates were always close. "You okay about that?"

"I will be, sir. In a few days, I guess."

"Okay, understood, but don't keep it bottled up. Any interest in coming to CID?"

"No sir, none. I love it out there on motors."

"Yeah, I did too."

"Sir?"

"I was in motors, Traffic, for about five years. Bad crash, fucked up my arm."

"You miss it, sir?"

"Somedays, but not when it rains." The Duke laughed, then shook his head. "Fucking shoulder is like a goddamn barometer now. Every time a fucking storm heads this way my whole fucking arm feels like it's going to implode."

Acheson nodded. "Sorry, sir."

"You ride out there long enough and you'll know what it's like to feel like a barometer. Don't you forget that."

"Yessir. You still ride?"

"Yup. A hawg, every now and then. Electra-Glide."

"Heavy bike. Where do you ride around here?"

"Hill Country. Llano. Usually run down to Cooper's Bar-B-Q and pig-out, then come back up next day."

"I've heard about that place, sir. Good grub?"

"The best."

"Well, next time you head that way, give me a yell if you want some company. I'd like to get out on the open road, away from all this traffic, anyway."

"Sure, kid. Well, I guess you're with us on this one. You finish your report?"

"Yessir, the original and two supplementals, one for each crime scene."

"Okay, I'll look 'em over later, but tomorrow. I'm going home now, get some shut eye. Report to me after briefing tomorrow morning, but write up your theory about what happened, put it in a supplemental and drop it in the Watch Commander's box. Tell him I told you to."

"Yessir."

"And good work, Meathead."

Acheson turned, grinned. "Thank you, sir."

Chapter 4

Acheson wrote the report Dickinson wanted, dropped it off at the lieutenant's office then walked to the locker room, grabbed his helmet and a fresh ticket book before he ambled through the station and out to the parking lot. He started the BMW's motor and turned on the strobes, then walked around the bike, checking to see that all the emergency lighting was working properly. He mounted the bike, turned off the lights and was getting ready to retract the side-stand when a patrol car pulled up alongside.

"Hey," Carol Denison said as she rolled to a stop.

Acheson looked at her and smiled. "Hey, yourself." Then he looked at the thing next to her, and groaned. "Hey, Rookie," Acheson barked.

"Sir!"

"Don't you ever, and I mean ever, ever let me see you picking your nose when you're in a department squad car. You got that?"

"Sir?"

"And that bugger on your fucking finger? If you put that mother fucker in your mouth and I'll put three rounds in your fuckin' face. You, like, hear me, Rookie?"

"Sir! Yes sir!"

"You his FTO?"

"Yup. Hey, someone's gotta train these kids..."

"Guess so."

"Well," Denison said -- rolling her eyes, "How's it hangin'?"

"Low. Like down in the weeds low."

She nodded. "I don't know how you did it, man."

He looked away, didn't really want to go there today.

"So," she said when she saw his eyes, "Would you like to come over for dinner tonight? Me and Brad are doing up some steaks by the pool. Maybe a salad and ice cream?"

"Y'all still over in that complex off Northwest Highway?"

"Yup."

"Well, sure. Unless..."

"Yeah, I know, I know. There he is, ladies and germs: Joe Ace, Traffic Reconstructionist Extraordinaire. Gets called to go work every bad wreck in the county."

Acheson grinned. "I never, ever shoulda taken calculus. No good ever came from taking too much math."

"You finally figured that one out, like all by yourself?" Denison smiled. That knowing smile, the one he remembered from academy.

"With a pencil, too. Say, that reminds me. Rookie!"

"Yes sir!"

"Do you know how a mathematician gets rid of constipation?"

"No, sir!"

"Works it out, with a pencil."

Stone cold silence.

"So, you get it?"

"No, sir."

"Where do they dig up these morons," Acheson moaned.

Denison shrugged. "He's not too bad, Ben." But not as good as you were, she said to herself. She and Amy Breedlove and Acheson had become inseparable halfway through their academy class, and for a while there had been even money on who loved Acheson more, Carol Denison or Amy Breedlove. Yet Acheson had been oblivious to everything, was always the serious student and had never let on he noticed what was going on.

And who knows, Denison thought, maybe he really hadn't caught on. Better for him now if he hadn't.

"So, got a girlfriend yet? If so, bring her along!"

He shrugged. "You know me, still flying solo. You and Brad engaged?"

"No way! He's still married to his job..."

"Still selling cars?"

"Cadillacs, Ben, not cars."

"Oh, right. Silly me."

They laughed.

"Well, okay. Seeya around four thirty or five?"

"Sounds about right, and Rookie? Keep that finger out of your nose." he said, then he looked at Carol: "Be careful out there."

"You too, Ben." She slipped the car into gear and eased away, pulled out into traffic and was gone.

"141, are you in service?"

"141, 10/4," he groaned, knew what was coming next.

"141, 27B, Lemmon at Turtle Creek. Vehicle on fire, one fatality reported."

"-41, Code 5."

"141, at 0910."

"Well," he said as he pulled away from the station, "there goes the day."

Chapter 5

Acheson cleared from the wreck a couple hours later, then headed out Lemmon Avenue past Love Field, then wound his way over to Harry Hines and began cruising the area Amy had been working the day before. He didn't have any idea what he was looking for; in fact, he felt kind of lost as he cruised up and down the streets around the crime scene. He stopped on Maybank, looked toward the tire store as a Southwest 737 lined up on final for Love Field, then made his way back to Harry Hines. He was waiting to make a left onto Lombardy when something, some sort of insight, flashed through his mind. The light turned green and he turned east on Lombardy, rode a few hundred yards, then stopped on the shoulder and looked around again. Something was bugging him, but after a minute he pulled back onto Lombardy, then turned south on Denton Drive. Another few hundred yards and he crossed a little concrete bridge over a paved storm-water runoff ditch that carried floodwaters down to the Trinity River, and there it was again -- he knew he was missing something important. But what? He pulled the bike over onto the shoulder again, and something in his gut twitched, some little alarm in his head went off.